


Thick As Thieves

by Myrime



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Circus, Don't copy to another side, Family, Gen, Hanging, Hurt Clint Barton, Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26813701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: Clint and Barney promised to protect each other when they ran away from home, so Clint does not know how he ended up here, with a bruise the shape of his brother’s shoe on his back and a rope around his neck.“Do you know what they do to horse thieves?”
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Thick As Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 1 of Whumptober, "Hanged".
> 
> Enjoy!

Clint does not hear them coming until it is too late. He sits outside of a barn and watches the horse graze. Between his lips is a long straw that he chews on absentmindedly as he wonders how different life must be for the man owning this land, how satisfying it must be to have a barn and golden fields, to grow things with his own hands.

The circus, he has learned quickly, is just another cage, albeit one where he gets to know the world, town by miserable town. Bitterness does not suit him, though, so he does not ponder might-have-beens too long.

Clint only came out here to give his favourite horse some time to stretch its legs. Everybody is too busy and he is done with his chores for the day – as long as no one catches him lazing about, at least.

By the time the rock hits his shoulder, it is too late to wonder whether he should have asked permission to come out here. Clint’s head snaps up as he scrambles to his feet, knowing too well that staying down and making himself small will not save him from trouble.

Just a few feet away from him stands Trickshot, grinning at him with that cruel twist to his lips that everybody in the circus knows to be wary of. And there, right at his side, is Barney. Clint hides his sigh of relief. If his brother is here, things will not get too bad.

“What are you doing out here, Barton?” Trickshot calls. As always, he raises his voice a bit too much, despite Clint wearing his hearing aids. The volume only makes the nasty emphasis he puts on Clint’s name clearer.

People in the circus call Barney also _Barton_ , but he has somehow climbed their ranks more quickly, became of one of them more easily, while Clint is still lagging behind, trying to gain some respect. He is Barton the Useless or Barton the Dumb. Someone said that, if Barney ever lost a limb or an eye during a performance, it would not be so bad because they could just take one of Clint’s and replace them. Lately, Barney has stopped protesting these things so loudly. Only, of course, to give Clint a chance to stand up for himself.

“Beth looked restless, so I thought I’d take her out,” Clint replies and nods at the horse. He never takes his eyes off Trickshot.

If his father taught him one thing, it is to never look away from danger. While Clint is still far enough away from them and has not done anything wrong, it is better to be wary. With the circus stranded in the middle of nowhere while the flu is going around, people are getting bored. And boredom seldom breeds good things.

Trickshot nods and takes a few steps towards the horse, looking like he will accept Clint’s answer. Barney frowns, though, and that is enough of a waning.

The fields around the barn are flat and barren, offering no hiding spots. Clint is quick and since Trickshot does not seem to have his bow with him, he stands a chance to outrun them if it comes to that. The problem is, he does not have anywhere to run _to_. There is no hiding in a circus, so Clint stands his ground.

He notices too late that by staying where he is, he let Trickshot circle him so he is in front of Clint, while the barn – and his brother – are in Clint’s back.

“And who gave you permission for that?” Trickshot asks, quieter now, the grin replaced by a warning. 

All the animal handlers are sick, Clint could have said. Or that his main task is to be useful to the others. Instead, he raises his chin. “Nobody.”

He still does not move when Trickshot walks over to him, although the hairs in his nape stand up. It is easy to pretend that he is not afraid, right until Trickshot is right in front of him. Growing up, Clint’s father did not teach him self-preservation. Just that sometimes it is easier to not dodge the first hit – and that sometimes his instincts are wrong.

“Do you know what they do to horse thieves?” Trickshot asks, his tone now mostly just a whisper.

Shaking his head, Clint takes a step back. “I didn’t steal her.” He should know better than to argue. That never solved anything. But he is tired of others making up reasons of why he is supposedly in the wrong. Things were supposed to change to the better once they left home.

Clicking his tongue, Trickshot looks at him with mock-disappointment. The glint in his eyes is real, though. “You had no business touching her and yet you were out here riding as if you’re worth something.”

Clint cannot help the quick glance he throws at Barney, hoping for protest, for some assistance. He knows he does not have much to offer to the world, but it hurts when his own brother just stands there, like a wall in Clint’s back – and not the protective kind.

“I didn’t mean anything, I promise.” Clint switches gears from defiant to submissive quickly. He does not want to get beaten, does not want to always be someone else’s punching bag. “Billy is sick and she was looking sad so –”

A shadow appears at Clint’s side but his relief at his brother’s presence is short-lived. “Shut up, idiot.” Barney snaps in a rough voice. He sounds like he does not particularly like what is happening, but that does not stop him from playing along. “This could be easier if you just stopped lying.”

Their father always accused them of things. Lying, stealing, weakness. If there was no reason to get angry, he made one up. At this moment, with the setting sun in Clint’s eyes, Barney looks so much like their father that cold fear gathers in the pit of Clint’s stomach.

“Barney, you know –” he tries but knows it is useless before Barney cuts him off.

“I know nothing.”

_You promised_ , Clint wants to yell, _You promised you’d protect me._ Their father used to promise things too, he remembers. He never kept those either. Clint is sure the betrayal he feels must be clear on his face. They used to be allies against their father’s rage. It is not fair that Barney just stands there, delivering Clint to his fate when that is what they ran away from, months ago.

“Now, to get back to my question,” Trickshot drawls, apparently unhappy at not being the centre of attention anymore. Clint turns his head back to him only sluggishly, reeling with simmering anger. “Do you know what they do to horse thieves?”

Judging on the manic glint in Trickshot’s eyes, something very unpleasant. Clint does not understand how he managed to draw their ire, especially Barney’s. They must know he was not going to steal the horse. Where would he even go with it? Yet they look like he is guilty, like he cannot change their mind no matter what he says.

“I don’t know,” Clint says, trying for a strong voice. By now, he is sure he will get beaten up. It is inevitable, but while beatings are never pleasant, he is at least used to them. As long as he pretends his brother is not there, he will manage. But he cannot deal with the fear of his brother turning into a copy of their father.

“Why, you should always know what the punishment is before you commit a crime.” Trickshot smiles but there is something unholy in the twist of his lips.

He steps forward, crowding Clint back until he is pressed against the wall of the barn. Whoever owns it will not be pleased to find blood on their property the next morning. If it comes to that. Clint is still holding out hope that Trickshot just wants to scare him.

Almost like he wants to caress Clint, Trickshot raises a hand and traces it over Clint’s throat.

“Horse thieves,” he says almost gently, voice rough with what could be a caress but is probably anticipation, “are hanged.”

A tremble runs through Clint’s body before the words even fully register, before he realizes that, no matter whether Trickshot is telling the truth, this is his cue to run. He never manages to make a single step, however, because the hand around this throat tightens suddenly, cutting off his air supply.

It feels worse than when his father used to hit him in the stomach and he could not breathe because of the pain. Then, he had something else to concentrate on. Now, there is nothing but the terrible pressure around his neck and the words echoing hollowly inside his brain.

_Hanging_. He has seen all kinds of bruises and broken bones and is no stranger to blood. Once, someone was shot in their street and he still remembers the noise of it. Hanging, however, belongs in movies, not in real life.

Before Clint remembers that he has arms he can use to fight, Barney appears next to him and puts his hands on Clint’s shoulders. Surely, they just want to scare him. Barney will not let Trickshot hurt him. Not seriously, in any way, nothing more than slaps. They take care of each other, after all.

“Let’s get him inside,” Trickshot then says, however, and Barney’s grip tightens immediately, without any hesitation.

Clint tries to swallow around the pressure on his throat. He struggles, of course he does, but they pick him up like he weighs nothing and all his kicking meets only thin air.

Inside the barn, it is darker, which only heightens Clint’s panic. One moment, he is held aloft by two pairs of uncaring arms, the next he is falling and crashing hard into the ground. Not wasting time, he rolls to the side and scrambles away from them before he gets to his feet.

Until his eyes get used to the dimness, all he sees are two menacing shadows blocking out the light coming in through the barn door. All of this feels far more sinister than a simple beating because Trickshot was bored.

Feverishly, Clint searches for a possible exit that will not mean squeezing by the two bigger boys. All that does is waste precious seconds he could have used to formulate a plan of attack.

“My, my, Barton,” Trickshot says. He could sound soothing if his grin was not so cruel. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Just hold still.” Then he walks forward, trapping Clint with ease.

That, at least, pushes Clint into finally moving. No matter his chances, he cannot just stand there and wait for what they have in store for him. He makes it all of five feet before strong arms close around him and Barney rips him back, pinning him in place so he can do nothing but watch Trickshot’s approach.

From somewhere, Trickshot produces a rope. Thinner than the kind they use to secure the tent. A shiver runs down Clint’s spine as he stares at it in horror. They came prepared. Trickshot _and his brother_ did not just catch him outside and decide to teach him a lesson. They must have actively decided to come look for him and talked about what to do – and decided to bring a rope to hang him.

Clint is almost glad he cannot take his eyes away from the rope. Otherwise, he might have tried to twist out of Barney’s grasp to look at him, and he is sure he would not like what he would find there. Rage did funny things to their father’s face, twisting it into something they could not recognize and that dashed all hopes for mercy. Clint does not know what would scare him more if he looked up – seeing his brother’s features or those of a stranger.

When Trickshot comes closer with the rope, Clint’s body comes back to life. He lets himself drop like a stone, hoping to unbalance Barney so he can slip out of his grasp. But Barney is the one who taught him how to fight, so he never stood a chance.

For a moment, Barney’s arms do loosen around him, but before Clint can use that to his advantage, he is pushed down and a foot kicks him in the side, right where he broke his rib a few weeks ago. Immediately, pain flares up, shooting through his bones. He should know better than to let that paralyze him – he _knows_ pain, after all – but he freezes just long enough to allow Trickshot to move over him.

The next things he knows is something scratchy slipping over his head and coming to rest against his throat. It tightens just enough that is aware of its presence. While he can still breathe, all rational thoughts flee his mind.

This is real. Trickshot and Barney really mean to hang him. Here in some barn so far away from home that nobody will even know him when they find him. He will likely not even get a grave but end up in a ditch somewhere. Just another miserable youth vanished into nothing.

He will _die_. After years of surviving their father, after running away from home with Barney. After thinking he could prove the world wrong and make something of himself. Clint Barton will die here because he felt pity for a circus horse and took her outside for a few minutes.

The rope tightens a bit more and that is what finally pushes Clint into a full-blown panic. With a muffled yell, he grabs blindly for the feet in front of him and kicks behind him, hoping to get himself some space so he can get up. He punches and scratches and barely feels the blows raining down at him in return. Distantly, he hears voices but cannot understand what they are saying. He knows the tone, knows they are not meant to soothe him.

Clint fights, utterly certain that his life depends on it. Suddenly, one pair of legs disappears in front of him, but it only feels like a victory for a few, panicked heartbeats.

“Just stay down, man,” Barney says somewhere in Clint’s back, but Clint has no intention of following that order.

Before he can do anything else, however, the rope tightens further to the point of being painful. Worse, it tugs at his neck, pulling him up. Clint’s hands shoot to his throat, trying to find a nook somewhere to slip between the rope and his skin. The air becomes thin in his lungs, finding no way through his windpipe anymore, causing the blood to pump painfully inside his head.

Once Clint realizes he will not get free like this, he follows the pull and gets to his knees, glad when the pressure lifts a bit. Looking up, his legs grow weak enough that he almost falls right down again.

There is Trickshot, grinning madly like they are all just having fun with each other. The rope does not hang directly between them anymore. Instead, Trickshot threw it over one of the ceiling beams of the barn. Without taking his eyes off Clint, he tugs at the rope, laughing when Clint is pulled further up in response, trying to escape the pressure.

“Well, let’s get this going,” Trickshot says, sounding like he does not have a care in the world.

“No,” Clint croaks, but that is as far as he gets. If there is a later, he might be glad he did not have the air left to beg, but right now he would have done anything to delay the inevitable.

“Get up on your legs, Barton,” Trickshot calls and does not give Clint a chance otherwise by pulling on the rope with both of his hands now. “Or do you want to die on your knees?”

“Barney,” Clint wants to call but all that comes over his lips is a panicked gurgle. He still fights against the rope but it does not give.

He breaks when he sees Barney step next to Trickshot, his arms crossed and his face unmoved. He looks at Clint like he is nothing but a bug waiting to be crushed under his heel.

This is happening and Barney will just watch him die.

Sudden warmth spreads from Clint’s groin as he loses control over his bladder. It does not even fully register until Trickshot laughs again. Clint would have thought the panic would not leave any room for shame but here he is, ready to give in.

The pull on his throat grows and Clint gets up on his shaking legs. The rope loosens just enough to allow some air into his burning lungs and he gasps for it like a drowning man. What would his father say if he saw him like this? He would probably be as disgusted as Barney looks.

“My, you _can_ listen if you want to,” Trickshot coos, smiling again even though his eyes stay dark. “You bring no money for the circus, Barton, and we don’t feed worthless mouths.” He leans closer and almost nonchalantly puts more pressure one the rope for a few moments. “We don’t need little thieves.”

Clint cannot answer. He is scratching at the unforgiving rope around his neck, feels his fingernails break without achieving anything.

It is not his fault that they have not yet found a job for him. For now, he helps to build up and break down the tents, he assists backstage, he feeds the animals, he mends things. If they would let him, he would try his hand at any of the tricks, would work hard to get it right. Now, it seems like he will not get the chance.

Clint manages to take only a couple more shaky breaths before Trickshot gets impatient. This time, he does not tug slowly at the rope but causes Clint’s head to snap up with the force of the movement. It does not stop, either, but lifts him right off his feet until he is suspended in the air.

Dark spots appear in his vision as the burning in his throat becomes unbearable and his lungs scream. His body twitches uncontrollably, trying desperately to reach solid ground. He does not find any and soon the only thing that still exists in the world is pain. Then everything goes dark.

* * *

When Clint wakes up, he is alone. It is pitch black around him but he feels straw beneath him, so he thinks he is still in the barn. Judging on the way his throat burns, he is not dead, although he never bought into those nice little stories of paradise, where everybody is happy and nothing hurts. He probably would not end up there anyway. They must know he is a Barton and refuse him entry on principle.

A groan builds in his throat as he tries to sit up, but he swallows it quickly, wincing at the pain. He still raises a hand to poke at the sore skin. There is no blood, at least, but it stings like mad and even the inside of his throat feels raw, his tongue swollen.

Clint pokes it again, just to distract his brain from the wet spot in his pants that he feels clearly now that he is moving. How pathetic he is, just like his father always said. If he were useful, if he could show all of them that he is worth something, that he can bring the circus money, they would never dare to touch him. They would not allow Trickshot to touch him.

White, searing anger unfolds in Clint’s stomach as he thinks of Trickshot. He cannot be angry at Barney. All they have left in this world is each other. But Trickshot – all he does is shoot arrows at targets. He even misses sometimes and Clint knows he has been beaten for that.

If Clint could shoot, nobody could ever sneak up on him again. He could keep everybody well away from him. And he could steal Trickshot’s job as revenge.

Well, Clint thinks, as he sits in the dark barn, trying to get his throat to work properly. They just said he is a thief. He might as well prove them right and get himself a bow. Shooting arrows cannot be that hard, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ever pretend nothing happened after someone's been choked. Our throats can swell shut even hours after the fact. You don't even have to see anything from the outside. Be safe and see a doctor!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
